


He Looked At Me With Big Green Eyes And Said, ‘You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet.’

by Spruce_Moose (Duckyboos)



Series: Guns, Puns And Dean's Impala [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF Castiel, BAMF Dean, Bounty Hunter Dean, Criminal Castiel, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Snarky Castiel, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-04 10:49:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1776388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckyboos/pseuds/Spruce_Moose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Drop the gun, Cas.”</p><p>The gun. Dean’s gun. The Colt.45 that he’s grown more than attached to since he stole it from the bounty hunter during their last encounter.</p><p>The very same encounter when he’d left Dean handcuffed to his bed. </p><p>Six months is a long time; it’s not like he’s still holding a grudge, right?</p><p>“Don’t make me shoot you, Cas, ‘cause believe me after six months, two weeks, four days and –” there’s a beat of silence as he checks his watch, “– two hours, I’m feeling a little trigger happy.”</p><p>So, okay, he’s still holding a grudge.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p>Castiel Novak is a professional.  The field he’s a professional in isn’t strictly within the parameters of the law, but who gives a fuck for legality when he’s twenty-four hours away from retiring with several million dollars in an off-shore bank account?</p><p>He certainly doesn’t.</p><p>Problem is; a lot can happen in twenty four hours – just ask Jack Bauer – and he has pissed quite a few determined people off over the years, the least of which is a certain bounty hunter with devastating green eyes that he’s totally forgotten about.</p><p>Yep, totally.</p><p>What could possibly go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Looked At Me With Big Green Eyes And Said, ‘You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet.’

**Author's Note:**

> So.  
> I have written and re-written this a squillion times (no hyperbole, honest) and I'm still not happy with it. But if I don't post it now, then I'm gonna go (even more) insane, and trust me; nobody wants that.

Most – nearly all, in fact – days, Castiel loves his job. He can rake in thousands of dollars in a single night; who in their right mind wouldn’t want that? But then there are days, like today, when Cas wishes he was something tedious and benign like a parking meter attendant or waiter.

“Hit me.”

The dealer dressed in the Casino’s red and black uniform flashes a flirty smile as she turns over a card. Eight of diamonds.

Twenty-one.

The man to his left – his mark; a millionaire called Dick Roman – snakes an arm around Cas’s waist and presses a slimy kiss to his temple. Castiel represses the shudder that threatens to make its way to the surface; a manifestation of the disgust he feels whenever the mogul so much as _looks_ at him.

Five months. _Five long months_ of this shit.

“That’s simply amazing Jimmy,” he marvels, smoke curling around his words like gray serpents and he takes another pull off the cigar between his lips that probably costs more than Cas’s suit. “you’re really quite something else. I can’t believe how lucky I am to have found you.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Cas smiles demurely, “from the first time I laid eyes on you I knew that I wanted –“

_your fucking money._

“– your attention. I was convinced I didn’t deserve it, though.”

Roman slides the hand that was resting possessively on Cas’s hip, round to the small of his back, fingertips tracing circles in a gesture that may appear soothing to an outsider, but Cas understands the real intent and he forces himself not to tense up.

He’s never fucked a mark in the name of money and he’s not about to start now.

Even if this particular con is worth $1.2 million.

This is his last full-scale confidence game. After Roman, he’s getting the Hell out of dodge and with the decent nest-egg he’s built up over the years he should be able to buy a gorgeous beach house in the Maldives; a beautiful place, but – and most importantly – somewhere without any kind of extradition treaty with the US, and still have more than enough to live a great life.

Retiring at age thirty-two with several million in the bank is not a path he envisaged himself going down when he was a kid – he wanted to be a vet – but he can’t say that he’s particularly sorry about it now.

Unfortunately though, the money isn’t his just yet. That comes tomorrow. For now, he just has to play nice with the cigar-smoking douchebag who keeps fondling his ass and resist the urge to throw up all over the blackjack table.

Shouldn’t be too hard. He’s a professional after all.

 

***

 

It’s a severe understatement to say that when the knocking comes on the hotel room door far too early in the morning, Castiel wishes some kind of plague on whoever is standing on the other side.

He’s bone-tired; the kind that is only rectified with sleeping for a thousand years and it doesn’t help that when he manages to lift his face out of the rather squishy pillow – which is a an epic struggle in itself – the LED clock on the nightstand confirms in garish red letters that it’s a little before seven AM. Which means that he’s actually only been asleep for about fifty minutes; Roman having kept him at the casino until the early hours.

After which, Cas had desperately needed a drink – or several – to purge the all-over ick clinging to his soul after dealing with the slimy bastard.

Whatever, it made sense after his seventh whisky chaser.

As the seconds tick by and the knocking increases in volume and urgency, it’s obvious that whoever the fucker is, they’re really not going away.

“Alright,” he croaks, then coughs, tasting something that is both sticky and worryingly furry at the back of his throat and on his tongue. He rolls out of bed gracelessly, limbs not doing as they’re told, before padding barefoot across the sticky-with-something-that-he-doesn’t-want-to-know-about carpet; briefly stopping to hurriedly rummage through the mountain of papers on the table for the Colt.45.

He positions himself at the corner on the outside wall of the bathroom, just in view of the door, pressing his back against the grotty surface, tightening his grip around the pearl handle. “Who is it?”

There’s no response for a few tense moments and Castiel swallows hard, fearing the worst.

And then the door bursts open, flimsy brass chain ripping out of the wall, shitty cheap wood splintering under the powerful kick administered by a heavy army boot that can really only belong to one person.

Dean Winchester is simultaneously the most beautiful thing that Cas has ever seen and the bringer of his demise. It’s hard to reconcile the two when the handsome bastard grins widely, flashing perfect teeth, and those devastating green eyes spark golden under the shitty motel lights.

Hindsight really is wonderful thing, because knowing what he knows now, Cas would have definitely not pulled that stupid con back in San Diego; the series of unfortunate events that followed have been more trouble than the few thousand dollars was worth.

“Hey baby,” Dean sing-songs, far too happy for this time in the morning, “miss me?”

On some level, Castiel knows that he can’t outrun Dean; would have better luck outrunning something stationary like a lamp, but he has to be seen to put in a token effort, and so he whirls away from the bounty hunter, not really sure what he’s hoping to accomplish, except to give Dean a sense of achievement when he inevitably catches him.

He bolts towards the greasy window that quite possibly hasn’t seen any form of cleaning product since the seventies and reaches it within seconds; greeted with the sight of the almost empty parking lot a couple of floors down. There’s absolutely nothing to break his fall; no bushes, cars or convenient awnings like in action movies. If he jumps, then he’s gonna splatter across concrete like Wile E. Coyote.

Which would be really inconvenient and only serve to make his headache worse.

He spins around; eyes skimming over the room, catching on Dean who is still in the doorway, apparently confident that Cas isn’t going anywhere, pistol locked onto him.

“Drop the gun, Cas.”

The gun. Dean’s gun. The Colt.45 that he’s grown more than attached to since he stole it from the bounty hunter during their last encounter.

The very same encounter when he’d left Dean handcuffed to his bed.

Six months is a long time; it’s not like he’s still holding a grudge, right?

“Don’t make me shoot you, Cas, ‘cause believe me after six months, two weeks, four days and –” there’s a beat of silence as he checks his watch, “– two hours, I’m feeling a little trigger happy.”

So, okay, he’s still holding a grudge.

Cas slowly sinks to a crouch, lowering the gun to the floor, loath to simply drop such a beautiful weapon, and quickly straightens up again, raising his hands in the air; the universal sign for surrender.

Though really to surrender, surely there has to be some kind of resistance rather than just a feeble attempt at it.

_Slowly slowly, catchee monkey. Or in this case, Neanderthal._

“Why, Cas?”

Castiel exercises his right to remain silent.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out sooner or later and come after you?”

Obviously a rhetorical question.

“Turn around,” Dean mutters, all good cheer gone, gun still trained on Cas. “I mean, do you think I’m that fucking stupid?”

Cas obeys with a shrug, trying to make it look nonchalant as he glances over his shoulder where Dean is coming closer, eyeing him warily like he’s a caged animal, prone to attacking its handlers. Which isn’t too far from the truth. “Do you really want me to answer that? ‘Cause I seem to remember you making it _very_ easy for me to outsmart you.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from behind him. “Jeez Cas, and you think _I’m_ stupid? I’m not the one mouthing off to the guy holding a gun to my back.” Which is probably a fair comment under the circumstances. Sure, Dean may not be on speaking terms with subtlety or prudence, but he’s at least smart enough to not act like a total asshole to someone he royally fucked over six months ago.

“You’re not going to shoot me.” He’s only halfway convinced, because there’s no way Dean would have come all this way just to shoot him in the back in a crappy motel in the middle of nowhere.

“Not to kill, no; you’re worth a shit load more to me alive, but that doesn’t rule out non-fatal shots.”

In a fair fight, he knows he doesn’t stand a chance against Dean’s brute strength; the man is made up of thick muscle and determination, whilst Cas…just isn’t.

Which is why he has to rely on the assets he does have.

He spins around, striking the back of Dean’s right hand, directly above his wrist, hard enough that Dean grates out a harsh swear word and releases the pistol, sending it skidding across the carpet, far enough away that it’s out of reach for either of them. Cas brings up the heel of his hand, crashing it into Dean’s nose, forcing him backwards in a clumsy stumble.

Whilst Dean instinctively reaches up to cup his nose, Cas bolts for the door, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste to escape.

A hangover plus lack of sleep do not a smooth getaway make.

The split-second it takes him to recover is more than enough for Dean to catch up and he does; hand reaching out and grabbing Cas by the shoulder, half turning him, shoving him against the wall with a palm firmly planted in the center of his chest.

It hurts like fuck when his head meets cheap plaster, but there’s no time to recover because an instant later, Dean’s body is pressing against him, weight of him hot and hard and it sends Cas back in time six months to when he and Dean had been in this position under marginally preferable circumstances.

“Well, this seems familiar,” Cas smirks teasingly, heart pounding in his chest, body positively tingling with a lethal mixture of adrenaline and lust. He’s breathless, and it’s not entirely from the burst of exercise, though he’d deny being affected by those half-lidded green eyes until he was hoarse with it.

He fists his hands in the material of Dean’s shirt and drags him in closer, goading, testing, watching Dean closely for any reaction. Something flickers behind Dean’s eyes, possibly his vague sense of morality leaving for a more conducive clime.

Just. one. little. push. “What’s the matter, Dean?” he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, looking up through dark lashes, knowing _exactly_ the effect it has, “scared I’ll outmaneuver you again?”

And then Cas gets the reaction he wants; Dean’s mouth crashes into his, hips thrusting against Cas’s with a ferocity and desperation that sends his desire for the man into overdrive, wanting nothing but _Dean_. On him, inside him; he doesn’t care, he just _wants_.

He returns the kiss where he can, mouths fusing, devouring, lips slick, hot and wet and messy and _oh so fucking good_ , hands sliding up the smooth plane of Dean’s back, fingernails digging into flesh reflexively when Dean’s hips buck into his, thigh sliding between Cas’s legs.

If he were thinking straight, it would worry him how easily he submits to this; to Dean, but the only thing he cares about are Dean’s teeth on his neck, biting down hard,rutting against Cas, hot, hard line of his cock rubbing against him through their jeans, and there’s absolutely no stopping this train now.

He grins against Dean’s panting mouth, warm breath ghosting over his cheek, as he jerks Dean’s belt buckle open, noting how the bounty hunter doesn’t help or hinder his progress; just chuckles low and dirty, rumbling deep in his chest.

“Eager, Cas?”

“Fuck you,” it’s more of a suggestion than a comeback as he yanks down the fly on Dean’s jeans, popping the button, pushing the clothing down around strong thighs, before attending to his own with lust clumsy fingers, frantically ripping fabric away from his skin and then at long-fucking-last their naked cocks come into contact; hard lengths pressed together, grinding relentlessly, seeking out any kind of coherent rhythm.

He can’t move; pinned to the wall by Dean’s hips as they rock together, wonderful slick and slide creating a perfect friction that’s slowly making Cas lose his mind and he knows that he’s not going to last long; he’s gonna come like this; like a goddamn teenager, but Dean will be right there with him, breath hitched on a moan –

“Come for me Cas. Wanna see it, wanna feel it…” He exhales a ragged breath, aching hard, rhythm eking out of his thrusts, “So fucking _hot_.”

Cas almost growls as he comes, spilling in the scant space between their bodies a split-second after Dean, head dropping to Dean’s collarbone, panting harshly against the material of his shirt, hips still twitching with the aftershocks of his fantastic orgasm, “you’re a goddamn bastard.”

He can _hear_ the grin in Dean’s voice; suddenly surprisingly cognizant, “you really have no idea.”

“You say tha–“ but Cas’s witty rejoinder goes unfinished, because Dean’s fist is sharply connecting with his jaw in just the right way that he registers a blast of pain before he’s pulled under and his world fades to black.

 

***

 

So he thought that he couldn’t feel worse. Turns out he was wrong.

When he wakes his face is mushed against hot leather, arms pulled taut behind his back and he’s pretty certain that he couldn’t be in a more uncomfortable position, which can realistically only mean one thing. He’s back where he started six months ago; handcuffed in the back seat of Dean Winchester’s muscle car.

If Cas hadn’t seen him naked, he’d assume that Dean was trying to overcompensate for something.

“Ah, sleeping beauty awakes,” the bastard is still too chipper and it’s grating on his already frayed nerves, “don’t worry princess, I tidied you up and made you decent before I bundled you in the car,” a situation that isn’t made better when he realizes that the sun is pretty high in the sky, indicating that he’s been unconscious for quite a while; possibly hours.

He’s supposed to be meeting up with Roman at three.

“What time is it?”

“Why?” Dean’s eyes meet his in the mirror, full of smug, self-satisfied glee, “got somewhere you’d rather be than with yours truly?” he shakes his head, tutting like a fucking school ma’am, infuriating smirk still in place, “and I thought we shared a moment.”

“The only moment we shared was one of instant regret.”

“Now come on Cas, I didn’t regret it instantly. Not this time at least. Maybe last time after you left me for dead –“ Castiel snorts, a derisive edge to it, “ – and technically – well literally too, in fact – fucked me out of a shit load of money.“

“None of this is answering my question,” he states blandly and calmly, belying the frustration and irritation bubbling just below the surface. If he doesn’t turn up to his meeting with Roman – especially without prior notice – well, that’s it. He’s screwed out of over a million dollars.

Dick Roman isn’t the kind of person you jerk around; the businessman is impatient at the best of times, but now that the thrill of the chase and the fun of game playing has worn off with Castiel, he’ll be expecting complete compliance, and Dean with his stupid, brash assholeishess will have just washed away everything that Cas has worked for and fucking _endured_ for the last five months.

He will fucking _end_ Dean if he’s missed the meeting.

Dean ignores him, apparently determined to say his piece that Cas absolutely doesn’t care about. “I took your advice y’know. Checked the database. Found out all about you.” He pauses dramatically, clearly very fucking proud of himself, “and do you know what I noticed Cas?”

“What did you notice, Dean?” Cas drones, injecting as much boredom and disinterest into the words as he can. It’s only a minor form of rebellion, but right now it’s all he’s got.

“I’m glad you asked.” Dean’s reflection beams, and Cas is definitely going to punch the handsome bastard at the first available opportunity. And he’s going to enjoy it. Possibly more than the sex. Though that was pretty good too. “I noticed that every single one of the cases pending against you is fraud – but a very specific type.”

“ _Every single one_?” Cas echoes, blinking, making his eyes as round as saucers. “There’s more than one?” He knows that Dean won’t be fooled for a second – not anymore – but old habits die hard.

Dean rolls his eyes good naturedly, “Don’t play the innocent with me Cas. Kansas ain’t the only state after you. There’s Utah, Washington – Christ, you really did a number on a couple of dudes up there – Florida, do I need to go on? ‘Cause there’s more states that have a price on your head than don’t.”

The man really has done his research. It’s kind of impressive. And maybe a little hot.

Dean sighs into the sudden silence, apparently not entirely happy with the lack of reaction at his big news. “It’s just after two. We should get back to the good ol’ Sunflower State whilst Bobby’s office is still open.”

Well, that just isn’t going to happen. _Cannot_ happen, otherwise he’s truly fucked. And not in the good way like his experiences with Dean. More like in the getting-handed-over-to-the-police-and-getting-fucked-by-a-huge-dude-called-Rodney-in-jail way.

He falls silent, lying back down across the leather, glaring daggers at the back of Dean’s seat, wishing for some serious divine intervention, or – at the very least – his brain cells cooperating long enough to focus on something other than the way Dean felt against him earlier.

He needs a proper plan that will solve everything. Which is like saying that all he’s looking for is the fucking fountain of youth, but he’s a professional con-artist for fucks sake; he learned from the best and if he can’t think of a way out of this, then he really doesn’t deserve to retire in peace and solitude.

What would Gabriel do?

There’s quite a few times when that question throws up more problems than answers, but this is not one of those occasions. For once, Gabe is actually something other than a mild pain in the ass.

_‘It’s all about taking what you know about someone and using it to your advantage, Cassy. People are usually simple and if you can tap into something that they want, something that they desire, then you’re already most of the way there.’_

From what he knows about Dean, there are only two things that the bounty hunter is interested in: sex and money.

Which, incidentally, is pretty much identical to Castiel’s own ideals, but that’s a train of thought for another day, or even – and infinitely more preferable - never.

He sits up again, vision swimming, a brief wave of nausea overwhelming for a moment. He collects himself before making his offer, feeble as it may actually be at this stage, he’s got to at least _try_ , “If you let me go, I’ll double whatever the bondsman is paying you.”

It’s not too late to salvage his ‘date’ with Roman; If he can get to a phone, he can let  know him that he’s going to be a little late, maybe a couple of hours – an inconvenience for Roman, sure – but nothing that some serious flirting can’t solve.

Dean laughs; it’s a bitter, cold sound, not the warm teasing chuckle Castiel has grown accustomed to.

Cas presses on, knowing that really, this can end in only one of two ways, “I could use a partner.”

“Fucking rich old men and women getting a bit tiring?” Dean asks in faux sympathy, jealousy coloring his tone bright fucking green like a damn traffic light.

 _Go, go go_.

“I don’t fuck them.” Cas says quickly, trying to make himself sound wounded by the mere _thought_. He even pouts a little, which seems to get the desired response in the form of Dean licking his lips, before flicking his glance away from the mirror.

_Gotcha._

Cas smirks to himself, glimpsing the small curl of lips in his own reflection.

“You don’t?”

“No,” Cas says, earnestly, “I haven’t slept with anyone since you. And I don’t mean this time around.”

That is only a smallish lie. There was a brown-haired, green-eyed, loud-mouthed asshole in a bar a few months ago – who definitely did _not_ live up to his eerily similar-looking predecessor in pretty much any way – but he’ll be taking that little piece of information to the grave.

There’s a stunned silence in the car, before Dean cracks another smile, but it’s different; a little off-kilter in a way that Castiel can’t quite decipher. “Bullshit.”

“Why would I lie?”

_Well fucking duh._

“You’re a professional con artist?”

“Touché.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something kind of important?”

Castiel blinks, once, twice. He _might_ be forgetting something; he’s still pretty hungover and his brain isn’t really working at full capacity. Whatever it is, Dean looks pretty unimpressed, fingers drumming impatiently on the steering wheel.

“My fucking gun.” Dean finally spits, seemingly even more irritated that Cas doesn’t have the good grace to remember all the shit he’s pulled over the years, “the _other_ Colt you stole from me. You know, the one-of-a-fucking-kind, rare-as-rocking-horse-shit revolver. Where is it?”

Ah. The one he handed over to Crowley approximately six months, two weeks, three days and eleven hours ago.

“Sold it,” he replies, because the truth will definitely not set him free in this instance.

Dean’s jaw clenches, corded muscles in his neck tensing. “Who to?”

“What does it matter?”

“Oh, it matters. Now tell me. Or I'll hand you over to some friends of mine who aren't so forgiving.”

Cas cocks an unimpressed brow. Dean did _not_ just threaten him. So not cool.

And that’s it. Second way it is.

He’s 100% _done_ with being nice for one day. Patience is one of his virtues – has to be in his line of work – but there are some days when being a cunt just _works_.

By the time he was thirteen, Castiel could pick the pocket of almost anyone without them realizing until they got home; several hundred dollars – or whatever valuables they had on their person – lighter.

By the time he was fifteen, he’d been arrested on a good number of occasions; usually for getting into a bar brawls, which started when he hustled some kind of tough guy with a serious chip on his shoulder out of cash that typically totaled less than sixty dollars.

By the time he was eighteen, his sleight of hand was so well-practiced that he could perform card shark tricks with his eyes closed. Literally.

Which is why it takes him approximately ten seconds to produce the stolen cuff key from his back pocket, undo the handcuffs and reach into the front passenger seat where Dean’s .45 is just waiting for him to grab.

He thumbs the safety off and pulls back the slide, pressing the weapon to Dean’s temple.

The car swerves on the road for a split second, but Dean regains control just in time to meet Cas’s eyes in the mirror, wild and freaked as he asks – not unreasonably – “The actual fuck?”

Cas wiggles the fingers of his free hand in a ‘ta-da’ gesture, handcuffs dangling loosely from his left wrist. “Lifted the key from you before, when you were, umm, preoccupied, shall we say? Pre-emptive move. You really should have searched me thoroughly, Dean.”

“I’ll say again; the actual fuck?”

“I would have used my own – set of five for $6.95 on eBay, bargain – but they were in my boots. Couldn’t get to them without attracting attention. And hey, I got an orgasm out of it, so y’know. Not complaining. Turn the car around. We’re heading back.”

Brave, stupid Dean, “…no.”

Cas  sighs, presses the barrel of the gun more firmly to Dean’s head, “I’m not fucking around Dean. Please don’t make me shoot you, ‘cause as infuriating as you are, I don’t really want to hurt you.”

Dean exhales heavily, eyes flicking to Cas’s in the mirror as he relents; performing an impressive U-turn on the freeway, “you sure about this?”

“About as sure as I ever am about these things.” Which translates as: ‘no not really, but I’m gonna do it anyway.’

Cas pulls the gun away from Dean’s head, satisfied that he’s made his point and clicks the safety back on. “Can I borrow your cellphone?”

Dean somehow manages to look both amused and pissed off as he points to the glove compartment. “Knock yourself out.” He flashes a sardonic smile, “seriously, please do.”

“Save you the trouble, right?” Cas plants a sloppy kiss on Dean’s cheek before he drops back into his seat, flip-phone in hand.

The quiet that follows for a while is only mildly awkward considering the circumstances; Dean focuses on driving and Cas busies himself with texting Roman (can’t exactly phone him with the bounty hunter in listening range), giving him a bullshit story about totaling his car.

Dick shows the exact amount of concern for Cas’s welfare representative of his first name.

“Was everything planned?” Dean asks abruptly, twisting in his seat a little, glancing at Cas, who must react guiltily without realizing it, because Dean turns his attention back to the road with a loud sigh and a muttered “fuck, I’m so stupid.”

“Everything was planned,” Cas confirms softly, feeling more than a little shitty. Which is annoying, because now is _so_ not the time to suddenly grow a conscience, “it wasn’t incidental that I just happened to be in that bar six months ago. I knew you had the Colt.”

“Jesus fuck.” Dean scrubs a hand across his jaw, “did you have those keys on you too? Those universal ones that could have undone your handcuffs at any time?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He sighs again, resigned. “How’d you know I’d take you home rather than to the police station though?”

“Well, either you wouldn’t know who I was, in which case it would have been as simple as getting you interested, which if I recall, wasn’t much of an issue,” he tosses Dean an easy smile, “or if you recognized me and tried to take me to the police cells for the night, I’m sure that I would have found some way of convincing you not to.”

“So sleeping with me wasn’t a necessary part of the plan? You were already inside my house and you had the handcuff keys. You could have just waited for me to fall asleep or attacked me at any time.”

He has a point and for some reason, Cas can’t find it in himself to revert to type and lie, “It wasn’t part of the plan, no.”

“Was it part of the plan this time?”

“Not really. There would have been ample opportunity for me to get the key off you without the sex. Just a bonus, I guess.”

Dean seems to consider this. “So what happens now?”

"That’s really up to you. If you agree to let me go – and I mean, no more hunting me down either –  with your help I’ll get you your gun back and split the money I’m about to make off this next con with you.”

There’s a pregnant pause, before Dean says, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would you do that for me? You could just steal my car, leave me at the side of the road and keep the money for yourself.”

It’s a good question and one that he's not able to answer right now.

“Because you’re a good lay?” Castiel suggests with a shrug, offering it up as an easy explanation, 'cause it means that he won't have to delve to far into his own psyche; that shit can be dangerous. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s ‘cause I fucked you over and you’re not a complete asshole like the marks I usually steal from, so I feel bad. Consider it reparations or something. Okay?”

“Okay,” Dean says with a knowing grin, “But I gotta say Cas, I think you’re crushing on me harder than Lloyd Dobler did on Diane Court.”

Cas narrows his eyes in Dean’s direction, “you can go off people, you know.”

Dean tips him a cheeky wink, infuriating smirk gracing his features again.

“Well, I guess I don’t have much of a choice, now do I?” Cas could probably argue the point, but they both know Dean is right; it’s not exactly duress, but he’s certainly not doing it of his own volition. Which bothers Castiel for some reason that he’s too reluctant, too tired or too hungover – maybe all three – to look closely at.

“Wait. This plan of yours doesn’t involve you handcuffing me naked to anything, does it?”

Cas gives him a wry smile, “not unless you want me to.”

**Author's Note:**

> [ My Tumblr ](http://not-a-natural-born-idjit.tumblr.com/) where I reblog random crap and talk nonsense and occasionally post porn.


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